


Time Enough at Last

by livenudebigfoot



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: 2x13 Dead Reckoning, Episode Tag, M/M, Rough Sex, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 00:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/668096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/pseuds/livenudebigfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In a way, the bomb is still there." Reese and Finch reunite in the aftermath of Dead Reckoning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Enough at Last

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like there are probably going to be a million fics about this (I know there's at least one already) but whatever, here's my contribution.

In a way, the bomb is still there. Harold’s driving them home because he can’t let John behind the wheel and it’s probably his over-sensitive ears picking up the thunderous tick of his watch, but he’d swear he can hear the steady tick-tick-tick of time running out.

Good God, the clock on the bomb wasn’t even analog. Worry has driven him to confusion.

He keeps his eyes on the road (they can’t get into an accident, not now, not after all that’s happened) but once, while they’re waiting at a red light, Harold seizes John’s hand and holds it so tightly that the knuckles begin to roll and grind in his grip.

At the library, John lets Bear bring him to the floor with a smile and even when that smile turns on him and Harold sees the light come back into John’s eyes for the first time in far too long, Harold can’t shake the feeling that the world’s about to be ripped apart.

This is how it comes to be that Harold unbuttons John’s shirt for the second time today, and somehow his hands are shaking worse now than they were the first time. John reaches up to steady his wrists. They breathe together for a time and Harold’s knuckles go white as they dig into the crisp folds of John’s shirt.

“We could wait,” John murmurs. “I know now isn’t the best ti-” and then Harold backs him roughly into a bookshelf. The back of John’s head collides dustily with the collected works of Yeats as their mouths crash together, as Harold’s fingers curl harshly behind his ears and his teeth sink into John’s lips, because the two of them could be gone at any second and they need to make the most of it now.

It’s a haphazard journey to the floor, _watch your head, watch your knee_ , and then they’re down and Finch is shoving the two pieces of John’s shirt apart, raking fingernail and palm over his bare chest, chasing invisible wires.

“Are you alright?” John asks.

No. Not since. Not for a little while yet. Harold lets himself fall forward, stiffly and in slow motion, and presses his lips and tongue to Reese’s chest, to the space where his breastbone splits into branching ribs. With his mouth, he can feel it all: John’s warmth, the flutter of his lungs, the gentle in-out of his chest and stomach, the thrum of his fast-beating heart.

He holds that position for a very long time and makes no attempt to move until John pushes him gently to a sitting position and says, “Let me, now.”

John makes him sit perfectly still, hands on tweed-encased knees, while John dismantles him. The tie comes loose, the vest is unbuttoned with agonizing slowness, and the glasses are lifted from the bridge of Harold’s nose, folded reverently and placed on the lip of a low shelf. Reese is savoring as he peels Harold out of his clothing and Harold’s fingers begin to bounce urgently against the tops of his thighs. “Mr. Reese,” he says, gritting his teeth and reverting to formality while Reese’s hands slide up underneath the front of Harold’s shirt. Calloused fingertips seek out his nipples and Harold jumps, hisses as they’re gently pinched. “I wouldn’t want to rush you,” he snaps.

“Of course you wouldn’t, Harold.” His thumbs begin to move in slow, determined circles. Finch doesn’t make a sound, but his hips jerk suddenly and he winces. “We’ve got all night.”

That’s the illusion, Harold thinks. That’s the assumption that they make. But tomorrow has never been a guarantee, or even the length of a night. Brushing his knuckles over a spot where John’s bomb vest rubbed him raw, Harold thinks about how he has the power to change time. To speed it up or slow it down at will, and he thinks he’d give every book in the library for this moment, this short instant where they’re together and not in danger and not worried for anyone else, to last an age. But he knows that outside the library, time will rush on and on and sooner or later, something will interrupt them and tear them apart again.

He grasps at John’s cock through the front of his pants and slides a hand between his legs, stroking and pushing and nearly clawing, spurring John onward until foreplay is forgotten and John’s legs are slowly parting and his thumbs are digging sharp into Harold’s hips. Harold ignores the pain. He tears at John’s zipper, rips at the waistband of John’s underwear so hard he hears the elastic snap, and then his hand is wrapping around John’s cock and jerking it hard and dry and desperate.

John rolls them and Harold finds that the floor of the library is icy and soft with dust and it bites through the back of his thin shirt. He keeps his eyes on the faint, blurry ceiling while John drags his trousers down to his shins, grips him by the back of his knees, bends Harold nearly in half so his bones creak ominously.

No time for stretching, for lubrication, so all he and John get is a palmful of spit and their own terrible want to slick the way and then John’s in him. It’s not the gentle, curling pushes John usually fucks him with, no playful bounce to his hips, not even fast, hard precision fucking. His thrusts are deep and smooth and punishing, hard like John wants to meld them together, like if he pushed Harold to the ground long enough and fucked into him hard enough, they could become one undamaged man. John’s face sinks into Harold’s shoulder and Harold turns his head, scrapes teeth against the spot where John’s pulse flutters.

This is, he supposes, living in the moment. This is pain and speed and want. This is him having John now because he can’t have him forever. This is them trying to fuck away the past, the regrets, until they’re just animals, clawing and pushing and sweating on a dusty floor.

Reese thrusts into him with a growl and Harold’s dick twitches between them and wetness begins to spread between them. It runs over Harold’s belly and down John’s chest and, as John gently, apologetically unfolds Harold and eases back, between Harold’s thighs and onto the floor.

With a grunt, John falls hard beside him and rests his brow against the bony point of Harold’s shoulder. “Thanks for being on the rooftop,” he says. He plucks at the sweaty collared shirt that Finch is still wearing.

Finch reaches over, rests a hand on the top of Reese’s head. “Any time, John,” he says, scratching gently.

As the minutes tick by, Harold’s back begins to protest the hard floor, but neither of them can be bothered to move and soon Bear joins them, collapsing against Harold’s other side with a whine and becoming a soft, overheated presence against Harold's bare legs. They wait out the night like that, a warm, happy tangle on the floor of their library and Harold, in the absence of a clock, forgets about the time.


End file.
